The Wrong Flower, At First | Poetry

I was born in a rose bed.

You’d think that would mean beauty.

But honestly?

I never felt it.

Everything around me was red,

rich and perfect.

And there I was—

a strange burst of yellow

with petals that curled the wrong way.

At first, I tried to fit in.

I kept quiet, stayed low.

If I didn’t speak,

maybe no one would notice

how different I looked.

But of course, they did.

Not in cruel ways,

just in glances that slid past me,

in compliments I never got,

in the way I always felt like background noise.

So I started to believe it—

that I was wrong.

Not enough.

Not beautiful.

And the worst part?

I stopped blooming altogether.

But over time,

something small shifted.

Not because someone saved me.

Because I got tired

of pretending to be a rose.

Maybe it was a quiet morning.

Maybe it was a question I asked myself

for the hundredth time:

what if this was never about being like them?

What if I was a sunflower all along?

It wasn’t easy,

and it didn’t happen overnight.

But little by little,

I began learning to love myself—

not the version I made small,

but the one I’d buried.

At first, it felt awkward,

like wearing someone else’s skin.

But slowly,

it started to feel like home.

I realized then

that the importance of self worth

isn’t about being praised—

it’s about standing tall

even when no one’s looking.

And even now,

on days when I still feel too loud,

too yellow,

too unlike the rest—

I remind myself:

I wasn’t meant to be a rose.

I never was.

And somehow,

that makes all the difference.

So here I am,

still learning to love myself,

but blooming anyway.